


What You Need

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Dom/sub, First Time, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:18:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were surprisingly few search results for 'how to force your pain in the ass, closet masochist big brother to admit he wants to sub for you'. Go figure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Deep down, Sam knew they were perfect for each other. Maybe it was some mystical star-crossed soulmate thing, or maybe it was just necessity - the two of them building themselves to meet each other’s needs because there was none else around to do it. Whatever, the 'why' didn't really matter. What mattered was that Sam had figured out a long time ago what they were supposed to be, what they needed from each other, and it was about damn time Dean did too. Because it was one thing to go out, get plastered and laid, it was a whole other thing for Dean to let himself get hurt by strangers because he wouldn't admit to Sam what he wanted.

It had always been there under the surface; even as a teenager, Dean's sexual tastes had lived on the hard-edge of vanilla and Sam knew it all because Dean told him - told him every filthy fucking thing his big brother ever did, because back then there had never been a secret between them, except for the one that really mattered. Now... now that one secret - that one dark, vicious desire - had bred like a virus into all of things that they didn't tell one another. Sam had made it worse by leaving, he knew that and he took it, but he was back now and Dean was still spiraling.

  
He wasn't sure how much hell had to do with it, but he couldn't deny that Dean had really started to crash since he'd been pulled out. Forty years of torture and torturing would be enough to change anyone, and whether his brother would admit it or not, Dean had always needed that pain, that control - those had been the only real constants either of them had ever known.

  
What Sam was sure of was that Dean wanted this, wanted Sam, and that he hated himself for it every second of every day. The pain he let those anonymous strangers inflict on him was as much a punishment for what Dean clearly thought was his own sickness as it was a need to get off. Sam could handle that, all of that, because he could always be strong enough for Dean even if his brother had never noticed it. But he couldn't stand the thought of Dean getting hurt, getting out of control with those other people because then he had no protection - no one would ever know how to take care of him, protect him, like Sam could and it was about time for both of them to step up.

Now he just actually had to do it. Gulp.

  
***

  
Dean drops the bags inside the door, doing a piss-poor job covering a wince that Sam pretends not to see. He's got enough stubborn for a herd of mules and he can do this shit just as long as his brother can.

  
They'd spent the last two hundred miles in roaring silence after Dean had refused to take off his jacket despite the sweat rolling down his temples. Sam knew why, knew there were bruises up the length of his brother's forearms from where he'd let that guy from the bar last night manhandle him in the alley. Sam knew because Sam had followed, watched, as his big brother - a guy with more training and fighting skill than most small armies - just LET himself get pinned to a wall with his arms trapped behind him and got finger fucked raw. Sam had made a conspicuous noise - and maybe loomed just a little - from where his brother couldn't see and Dean's partner had run off before he'd gotten to claim the prize.

  
Ok, so Sam could be a possessive, controlling bastard when he put his mind to it; that wasn't the issue. The issue was that Dean was hiding shit from him - again - and was putting himself at risk to boot.

  
Sam flopped down on the bed closest to the door - the one that had always been tacitly understood as Dean's - and glared, just daring his brother to say something.

  
It just might be a sign of the apocalypse - like they need another one - that Dean doesn't say a damn thing. Just walks over to the other bed, lays back for all of four seconds, then he's up like there's electricity running through his veins and he can't hold still. He looks around the room idly and Sam can see him running through the checklist - salt lines, protective sigils, knife under the pillow - before Dean finally comes up with,

  
"Gonna grab a shower." Dean's moving for the bathroom on autopilot, not even paying attention to his little brother until his voice rings out.

  
"No," Sam says, quiet but firm. He's not looking at Dean, just flipping through the fuzzy cable channels without really seeing them. Dean can't seem to decide if Sam actually spoke or not because it takes him a minute to fire back.

  
"What the fuck do you mean 'no'?" He steps one broad thigh in front of the television screen, arms crossed, challenge sparking behind jade eyes.

  
"No," Sam says simply, cocking his head to see the screen between Dean's legs, "Don't argue with me Dean."

  
"Fuck you, Sammy." Dean rolls his eyes, throwing in a middle finger for effect and stomps off toward the bathroom again.

  
"Maybe, if you're good."

  
Dean literally freezes - mid-step, one leg raised, fucking freezes. The only testament that time hasn't stopped altogether is the cop show blaring out into the afternoon air and the strange little choked off sound Dean makes in the back of his throat. Or maybe that was his brain shifting back into gear since he's at least moving again, though mainly it's just his mouth, opening and closing like a dying fish.

  
Sam keeps right on flipping channels, a tight thrill of triumph zinging down his spine, but it feels like the TV is going to sputter right out in respect for the tension hanging between them. The air vibrates like a plucked string and every inhale of it seems to make Sam's lungs shrink.

  
"I'm gonna grab a shower," Dean mumbles weakly, moving a half-step too slow into the shadow of blue tile and shutting the door.

  
The thrill that coursed through Sam backs right up on itself, flooding his system with itchy prickles. It would help if he had a damn clue what he was doing. Sure, he tried to research it, but there were surprisingly few search results for 'how to force your pain in the ass, closet masochist big brother to admit he wants to sub for you'. Go figure.

  
Short of magically becoming a brilliant, natural dom - how come he never gets the powers he actually wants? - Sam settles for wiping his palms dry on his jeans and going with his gut.

  
He's up and across the room before he gives himself a chance to think about it, slamming through the bathroom door. The particleboard bounces against the wall at almost the same moment Dean rips the shower curtain halfway back - right hand holding a section up to preserve his non-existent modesty and the picture it makes is so damn funny Sam almost breaks down laughing right then. But he doesn't. No, he just grips hard on Dean's water-slick arm - still covered in another man's bruises, last fucking time for that, Sam can guarantee - and jerks his brother off balance.

  
Dean's still stunned, footing unsure on the slick ceramic and he's crashing into Sam's waiting arms before he has a chance to get out more than an incoherent shout. Sam's not stopping, dragging his still-dripping brother out of the bathroom and half-flinging him onto a bed.

  
Dean looks murderous; hard to pull off when you're soaked, naked, and splayed out against your will on cheap motel sheets. Especially hard to pull off when your slowly inflating dick clearly isn't that upset about it.

  
"What the fuck has gotten into y-"

  
The tirade is cut off by Sam's fingers clamping hard around the hinge of Dean's jaw, forcing his head back until Dean's got to look across the rolling planes of his cheekbones just to see Sam. It's an honest to God miracle that Dean doesn't get his hands up and clock Sam one - Sam was more than expecting it - but he holds perfectly still as Sam slinks the length of his body up against Dean's to get right up in his brother's face.

  
"I said 'no'," Sam repeats, no louder than before, but even he can't deny the heat in it. His stomach is twisting itself up into the kind of knots Gordias would be proud of, but he's going for it anyway because he's way too far in to back out now and call it a joke. It's make or break time and he's not sure what either one of them will do if it turns out to be break.

  
"I know you want this," he says, lips brushing the damp stubble of Dean's chin. Whatever was holding Dean back snaps then and he's fighting like Sam's got a gun to his head. Actually, Sam's seen how Dean fights with a gun to his head, and this is even more furious.

  
Dean's flipped them so he's on top, Sam's shoulders hanging off the bed beneath him and if Dean could have gotten his legs untwisted from Sam's in time it might have been a whole different story. Instead Sam uses his calves to lock down Dean's lower body and flips himself back on top. Sam's going to have a serious set of scratch marks across his throat from where Dean's short nails caught on thin skin when his brother tried to fucking choke him and oh, that's just it.

  
It's not the first time Sam's ever punched Dean, hell, it's probably not even the hundredth, but it's a good one; enough to leave his knuckles aching like the middle one might be broken and Dean's eyes rolling wildly. His brother recovers fast - learning to take a hit is just part of the trade - but it's long enough for Sam to really firm up his position, get Dean pinned good with his wrists held above his head by one of Sam's arms.

  
Sam immediately regrets not getting the handcuffs out of his bag earlier, but then again, that would have required thinking, and he's not at all certain he could have gone through with this if he'd considered that this was how it might end up.

  
The shower's still pittering in the background and a distant part of Sam spares a moment to feel guilty for wasting all that water, but about that time Dean's getting his shit back together and it takes all of Sam's attention to combat his brother's attempts to buck him off.

  
"Stop it." Sam commands, and for one trembling second he thinks Dean's actually going to obey. His brother's body goes still, rigid for a fraction of a second before it seems to occur to Dean that isn't what he meant to do and he's back to fighting again.

  
"Get off me! Fuck you!" he snarls, baring his teeth viciously at Sam.

  
"Not tonight." Sam snaps back, adding a little more weight to his hands.

  
"Stop saying that shit," Dean's voice grinds but it's ragged at the edges and Sam can hear the hurt, the need under it, "Get off me. Damnit Sam."

  
"No," and now it's Sam's turn to snarl, getting so close to Dean's face that they're breathing the same air and he can pick out the flecks of amber in the thinning irises of his brother's eyes. "I'll say what I want, do what I want. That's how this works, got it?" He shifts his hips a little back, giving up some leverage but getting the position just right to find Dean's dick stone-stiff and grind down on it. He feel like fucking cheering.

  
"I don't expect you to listen to me out in the real world, or do anything I say" - he's not expecting the impossible - "but in here, like this, you're mine. You'll do what I want, what I tell you to, because you need it, know you need it, and so do I." Dean's doing that frozen thing again, except his pupils are shooting steadily wider at combination of Sam's words and the careful thrust of his denim-swathed cock. "No more strangers in the back of bars, no more letting them hurt you. You've got me, I'll give you what you need, just ask and it's yours. You understand, Dean?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking-"

"I'm serious, Dean. I am so dead serious. What you're doing with those-" he tries hard to keep the grit of resentment out his voice as his fingers find the still fresh bruises on Dean's arms, "those strangers. You're going to get yourself killed one day, Dean, and I'm not going to stand around and watch, not again." Sam has to swallow thickly before he can get the rest out; it's dirty pool and he knows it - he'll get around to hating himself for it once this is all over - but it's also the only leverage he's got, "I'll walk." Dean's body shoots so tense Sam's sure his toes are curled. "We do this, the way we both need it, or I walk away."

It hangs in the heated air between them until Sam can't take it anymore, knows he's going to burn up or just implode right on the spot.

"You're full of shit," Dean says finally, but there's no resolve behind it. His eyes are flicking jack-rabbit fast between Sam's looking for the lie.

"Try me," Sam's stomach hits the floor and keeps right on going. It's a bluff, it's always been a bluff, even the times he's really walked away because Sam's always known one way or another they were going to end up right back here again. Dean's more than everything to Sam, he's the only thing, but in all this time Dean's never seemed to have figure that out.

And for one that turns out to be a good thing, because Dean buys it. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Dean nods his head. His "Okay." is nothing more than a breath but it makes Sam feel like he's going to shake to pieces from the inside out with relief. He leans in closer, so close that their lips brush and Dean shivers like his spine turned to ice.

  
"A-are you - are you gonna?" It's like the words are made of broken glass, dragged up through his brother's throat unwillingly. Sam can feel the hammer of his brother's heartbeat through his own chest, can see the need painting green eyes black - Dean's halfway to fucked out already and they're not even started yet and it hits Sam like a kick to the chest how bad his big brother really needs this.

  
"Do you want me to?" he asks like it's a real question, like the impatient throb of Dean's cock against him isn't enough of an answer. "Gotta say it Dean, that's my first rule. If you want it, you gotta ask for it. Now tell me what you want."

  
"W- Fuck, Sam..." Dean breaks off on a hard breath that's more than half sob. He grates his shoulder, making another weak attempt at breaking Sam's hold. Sam just pressed down a little more, knows he's already won, just needs Dean to admit it to himself. "I want you to."

The last syllable gets lost in the press of Sam's lips, hot fierce, possessive. He's waited years for this and it feels so fucking good to have Dean's mouth warm and pliant underneath him it goes right to Sam's head and gets the world spinning like a top.

He slowly releases his grip on Dean's wrists, bracing in case his brother tries to fight this out again - almost inevitably will at some point - but for now Dean lays still and just lets Sam have his way with his mouth.

Dean doesn't open right away when Sam slicks his tongue across the seam of his brother's lips, but a rough thrust of his hips and a quick nip has them parting on a gasp and Sam finally gets to explore the warm wetness of Dean's mouth.

You don't live in the kind of intimacy they always have without knowing way too much about the other person, so it's not exactly a surprise to figure out how responsive Dean is to a casual flick of Sam's tongue as he licks along the line of his brother's teeth, but that doesn't make it any less intoxicating. Doesn't do anything to slow the midnight black thrill that slides down his veins when Dean's whimpers for the feather-light circle of Sam's thumb on his hip.

Sam feels the shift as Dean moves his arms and he's slapping them back down to the sheets before Dean's got a chance to lay a hand on him.

"No," Sam grinds out, but the warning is all fire, pressed into Dean's still-open mouth. "You wanna touch me, you gotta earn it. Now get yourself a handful of those sheets," he has to bite back a moan when Dean just DOES it, "and don't you fucking dare move them until I tell you."

He can't resist dipping his tongue past Dean's lips again, pulling back to watch Dean chase the slick friction with his own, any more than he can resist sliding his hands down the length of his brother's tensed arms, muscles shaking from the death grip they've got on the fabric.

"You make me fucking crazy, you know that?" he asks around the scrape of stubble as he bites softly at Dean's chin, "Always have. All those nights you'd come back and tell me about the things you do with those girls, those guys... God, Dean, I wanted it to be me so bad." He takes his time kissing his way down Dean's throat, paying loving attention to every available inch. There's a wet spot growing on the front of his jeans as Dean's precome soaks through the fabric and it feels so good it makes Sam's eyes want to roll back in his head.

"I know how you like it," he continues, basking in the way Dean's breath hitches with every scrape of his teeth over sensitive flesh, "want it rough, want to be used. Like to be held down and just forced to take it like you're nothing but a hole to be fucked, like that's all you're fucking good for." Dean gives a full body shudder, letting out this pitiful noise caught somewhere between a moan and a plea. Sam shifts to press his lips right against his brother's ear, softly licking and kissing at the shell as he turns the motion of his hips slow and dirty.

"It's not gonna be like that with me," he whispers, Dean's body trembling all over again, goosebumps rising up over every inch of his skin, "Oh, I'm going to use you, fuck your holes long and rough and hard until you've got nothing left to give - and I expect you to make damn sure it's good for me. But you're still going to be the thing I love most in the world after, still going to be the only thing that matters to me, and you're going to remember it every second of every time I fuck you. I'm doing it because I love you, because I love you so much I can't get enough of you. Understand?"

Dean makes a shattered sound and Sam doesn't have to lift his head to know his brother's crying; thirty years of torture in hell to break his brother and Sam did it in ten seconds with a whisper.

"Say it," he commands gently, soothing his palm over Dean's chest, "Say 'Sam loves me'."

The best Dean can manage is a stunted 'gnh' as he thrashes his head back like he's trying to escape. He doesn't try to move his hands though - always the good little soldier - and his dick's still hard as steel, twitching fitfully under the slow rock of Sam's hips. It's not much more of a stretch to make up the distance Dean won throwing his head back, so Sam does it, kisses away the wet tracks of tears as his brother does his best impression of hyperventilating.

"Say it," he lets his voice drop deep, no louder, but heavier, the kind of tone their Dad would have used - because this wasn't fucked up enough all on its own. Sam feels Dean's muscles spasm, knows what’s going to happen two seconds before it does, then Dean finally, gaspingly forces out,

"Sam lo-oves me," voice breaking down on the end because every muscle Dean's got is clamped tight, spreading molten heat between their bodies as Dean coughs out his orgasm. Sam strokes over his brother's face and shoulders, breathing out his love over and over again until it's soaked into Dean's skin.

When Dean's breathing steadies, heartbeat still machine-gun fast, laying loose and boneless on the bed beneath him, Sam reaches out and strokes a finger over Dean's hand, still limply gripping the sheets.

"Touch me," he murmurs and just like that Dean's heavy hands are everywhere. His mouth too, Dean's lips soft and red from where he must have been biting them while Sam was talking. He's kissing Sam indiscriminately - cheeks and neck and chin and eyelids; anything he can reach, slurring Sam's name with every soft press of lips and tongue. The scratch marks he'd made earlier sting like a bitch under the attention and damnit all if that didn't feel pretty fucking mindblowing too.

Dean holds on like he's going to devour Sam, slowly winds down his desperation until at last they're just laying on the bed, Sam's shirt rucked up under his arms so their naked stomachs are glued together by the mess of Dean's come. Sam's dick is seriously pissed off; like 'I'm never speaking to you again' pissed off, because Dean all needy and broken like that had everything below Sam's waist signing the 'fuck him now' petition and there's just no way that's going to happen now. Soon, and then a fucking lot, but not now. Sam can't help but sigh.

He carefully disentangles himself from his brother and trudges back into the bathroom to shut off the still-running shower. They could both use a good clean up - and God, the idea of getting Dean all wet and soap and... mmm - but there's not a chance in hell of there being a single drop of hot water left and Sam's not up for a cold shower, even if maybe he needs one.

Dean watches like a hawk as Sam comes back over to the bed - shedding his shirt along the way because Dean's come may be sexy and all but once it's drying on your shirt, some of the appeal is lost - and lays himself back down, not quite in the circle of his brother's arms.

They should talk about this, talk a lot about this because Sam doesn't exactly know all of the protocols but there are definitely supposed to be safewords and rules and stuff and just thinking about having this discussion with Dean makes him want to run back into the bathroom and hide. The control of a few minutes ago was simple - years of Dean just giving him everything; he should have known it would be fucking easy to just whatever he wanted like this - but it's gone now and he's back to being Dean's little brother and he just knows he's screwing this up big time.

"Kinda overdressed, Sammy," Dean says finally, cracks webbing his voice. He picks idly at the belt loop of Sam's jeans, never quite meeting his eyes. "Left you hanging back there," he adds with a nod toward Sam's obvious erection -won't fucking go down even though he feels like he's going to die of embarrassment any second.

"It's ok," Sam mumbles, pressing the heel of his palm into the blood-heavy flesh through denim. Even that feels good enough to make him moan.

Somewhere in the smoldering hit of pleasure Dean got right up in Sam's face, green eyes shining with a dozen different things Sam can't put a name to, or maybe just doesn't want to.

"You said I could have whatever I wanted," Dean whispers. Sam nods slowly, air thinning out around him until there's nothing left to breathe. "I want to suck you off."

Sam's dick fucking leaps inside his jeans, smearing precome around the already soaked cloth. This is a turning point somehow; he hasn't got a clue what it means or where it's leading, but he can feel it, knows that everything that happens from here on in comes down to whatever he says now. That really doesn't help get the words out past the tar-thick worry in his throat.

"I don't want some half-assed suck," everything inside him twists sideways as the words keep falling out of his mouth. "Do it right or don't waste my time."

Fire flares so hot behind Dean's eyes Sam swears he can feel it prickling his skin. If this was anyone but Dean, he'd have probably just irreparably screwed things up, but it is Dean, and he's survived for years on nothing but the overwhelming need to prove he's good enough. Why the hell hadn't Sam thought of that before?

Dean's wedged himself between Sam's legs before there's a chance to say anything else, and why the hell would he ever want to say anything else when Dean's finally pulling his neglected cock free. The jagged breaths Dean's huffing over the head make the muscles in Sam's stomach flutter. He so hungry for the feel of Dean's mouth, sweet heat wrapped tight around him, but his brother just holds there, looking up at Sam through his lashes and it takes lifetimes too long for Sam to figure out that he's waiting for permission. Once he does, Dean's barely able to keep a grip on Sam's cock it twitches so hard.

"Do it," he commands, steely tone almost lost as Dean fucking engulfs him, takes him all the way to the base and... God, oh, God, his brother sucks like he was built for it, like he's going to suck the fillings out of Sam's teeth through his dick and right now that seems completely and totally plausible.

Sam's barely got a chance to get his hand curved around the back of Dean's head before he's losing it all the way down his brother's throat. Dean swallows around him, take it all and keeps going until the sensation stops riding the edge between pleasure and pain and just becomes pain. He releases Sam's spent dick with a whine when Sam commands it - and fuck if that doesn't make his cock think about perking up and doing it all over again - and pillows his head in the dip of Sam's hip.

Sam caresses his brother's short hair, Dean's soft whuffing breaths brushing the nest of hair around his base and doing strange, exciting things to Sam's dick even as his eyes droop slowly closed.

They really do need to talk about this, and they will, because eventually Dean's brain is going to start working again - and he bitches about Sam over thinking shit - and he just knows his brother's going to try and fight this again. But he's been here now, and any doubts he might ever have had melted away in the wash of them both coming like an act of God. This was what they needed, both of them, and he'd make sure they had it, even he had to tie Dean to the bed every night to give it to them.

Actually, that didn't sound half-bad at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their first big night, Dean has to confront what it all means - and Sam has to tie him up to make sure he does.

Dean shifted on the front seat of the Impala, smooth leather creaking under his jeans, and added another empty beer bottle to the collection taking up the spot his giant ass little brother usually filled. He cracked open another from the twelve-pack in the floor board and sucked down half of it in one go. Warm beer wasn't usually his choice for breakfast, but when you wake up at four in the morning with your head resting on your little brother's hip and his sleep-soft dick almost touching your lips, something has to be done. And that something is drinking.

It wasn't exactly like Dean had never thought about it. Actually, he'd considered it off and on from the time Sammy grew out of 'chubby little kid' and into 'holy crap, that's a big boy', and especially after he'd gotten Sam at Stanford and discovered his little brother had filled out in all the right ways. So yeah, he'd thought about it - more than even their special kind of fucked up could excuse - but he'd never have acted on it.

More disturbing than the incest stuff though - there's a sentence he never thought he'd think - was this whole, crazy, dom-Sammy thing. Which was not hot, like even any, at all, despite what his clearly misguided dick might think.

Shock; that's was it, he was in shock from the way Sam had just lost it like that - that's why it had all happened. Possibly in conjunction with some kind of weird, toppy-bastard possession that had gotten hold of Sam. That made sense.

And even if it WAS just Sam exorcising some seriously messed up issues of his own, it didn't mean Dean had to go along with it. If it looked like anything was going to happen again, he'd just put a stop to it, easy as that. He COULD actually say 'no' to sex - it had happened before… he thought. Almost positive.

The empty bottles clink as the new one joins their ranks.

Sam's probably going to wake up soon, notice that Dean's gone. He should probably head back, although driving may not be the hottest idea at the moment. Maybe he'll just hang out a little while longer, watch the sun climb over this nice river - what the hell state are they in, anyway? - for safety's sake of course. Not because he's avoiding Sam. Because that would be stupid - he can totally handle Sam. Totally.

***

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sam's shouting before he's even out of his car. Or, well, probably somebody else's car. He can't believe Sam actually stole a car just to come looking for him; or that it's giving him warm fuzzies. Ok, time to stop drinking now.

Sammy moves scary-fast on those big Sasquatch legs of his and he's yanking open Dean's door before Dean even has a chance to reach for it.

"Where the hell have you been!" Sam yells, way closer to Dean's face than he needed to be. Dean probably should have answered his phone earlier.

"Right here," Dean says simply, because he's the calm, rational one in the family. How come nobody ever notices that?

"Are you drunk?" Sam squeaks girlishly, 'cause he does shit like that - he's just not as calm and rational as Dean. "Correction, how drunk are you?"

Dean chooses not to dignify that with an answer and leans - calmly and rationally - on the setback. Which somehow dissapeared while he wasn't looking and now he's facing the ceiling of the Impala, head knocking against the half-full bottle of Jack on Sam's side of the car. Okay, maybe he should have stopped at the beer.

"Jesus, Dean," he hears Sam sigh, then he's being manhandled to sit up in the cluttered passenger seat and he's really had just about e-fucking-nough of that for one lifetime.

Sam's eyes shoot wide for the spit second before they close in pain when Dean shoves him back and the younger man ends up slammed against the steering wheel. Dean savagely surprises the immediate urge to make sure Sammy's ok - his little brother needs to learn to keep his damn hands to himself.

"Shit! What the hell, Dean!" If Sam's voice gets any higher only dogs - and other big, screechy girly-men - are going to be able to hear him.

"Just leave me fucking alone, Sam" Most of those words came out just fine.

A whole bunch of things happen with Sammy's face, but they're gone faster than Dean can get a hold on what they mean. He thinks maybe hurt was one of them; now it's definitely pissed off, though - college boy would call it 'resigned', but it's pissed off.

"So this is how you're going to handle things? Again?" And goddamnit, Sam should not be able to do that shit - should not be able to sound all hurt and dissapointed and make it feel even worse than if he'd just come right out and hit Dean or something. Hell, it wasn't like this was Dean's fault anyway; Sam had been like one step shy of fucking date-rape last night thank you very much. Which was exactly what he told Sam... or meant to; now that it's out of his mouth he's not sure the words were all in the right order.

Sam slumps into the seat next to him, not really looking at Dean even though he can sort of feel Sam watching out of the corner of his eye.

"Look, I'd have rather done it another way. But for some stupid reason, I thought you might react badly," he shoots Dean a glare, "I figured action was more up your alley. I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"Fuck you! And don't pull any of that cutesy 'maybe later' mindfuck shit either!" Dean growls at the windshield, "You couldn't fucking hurt me if you tried. And who the hell said I wanted any of that, you know? I don't know what you got up to in school Sammy, but I don't go for that whips and chains thing."

Which was a pretty shitty lie since they both knew that he totally went for that - went for it hard - even before he'd come all over himself just from Sam fucking talking to him last night. He really wished his face wasn't getting so hot.

"I'll apologize for the way I did things, Dean, that's on me and I'll try my best to make it up to you. But I won't be sorry for what happened. It was good, amazing, and we both needed it." The warmth of Sam's hand bleeds through the denim stretched across Dean's knee and he jerks away from it a couple of seconds too late.

"Just forget it, Sam," he mumbles, still not meeting the hazel stare he can feel burning into the side of his face. "It's over, ok. And it's not going to happen again, so you can just forget about it. Just - just, let's get to work, ok? There's still a monster that needs ganking, you know?"

Sam heaves another one of those sighs that's just as good as getting the last word for all the shit that's jammed up in it, but he turns the ignition over and they pull back onto the road, leaving whoever-it-was' stolen car for the cops to return.

***

Dean feels like hell - and he would fucking well know - when he wakes up. It's sometime in the late afternoon, he thinks from the light pouring in around the shut curtains. He remembers arguing with Sam about helping interview witnesses and he remembers grudgingly chugging down the water and aspirin his brother gave him before finally agreeing to a quick nap.

He does not remember being strapped to the bed. And yet, there he is, staring up at the shiny, body-warm cuffs holding his arms in place - a nice match for the fabric ties keeping his legs spread. And when the hell did he get naked?

His restraints are all attached low to the bed so his muscles aren't straining, so for all he knows, he could have been like this for hours. Really no way to tell, except -

"You actually get anything done on the case today or you just sit around watching me look pretty?" He leans up as much as the binding will let him; enough to glare at where he can feel Sam looking at him. His little brother's leaned back on the couch, laptop open on his knees but he doesn't seem to be looking at it. His eyes are all for Dean, dark and unnerving in the artificial glow of the screen.

"Both," Sam smirks, which is almost universally a bad sign. Smirking is Dean's job, Sam's supposed to sit around looking open and earnest. "Found a lead, don't think it should be anything bigger than a quick salt and burn. Got a few of hours to kill before it gets dark enough though."

"Yeah? Well why don't you let me out of these cuffs so I can kick your ass," Dean smiles, "I'll really drag it out, take up lots of time, I promise" If anything, Sam's smirk widens.

"Had something else in mind, actually." Sam sets the computer aside and stalks - stalks! - over the bedside. Which is when Dean notices that the damn handcuff keys are sitting right there on the nightstand where he could just reach out and grab them - you know, if he wasn't motherfucking handcuffed to the motherfucking bed! Sam's going to pay dearly for this.

"Sammy, whatever the hell you think you're up to, you need to change your mind right fucking now," he warns as the bed dips under Sam's weight.

"Or what, Dean? You'll scowl me to death?" Sam settles easily between Dean's spread thighs, patting one of them lovingly in a way that makes Dean jerk in frustration.

He hates this shit, hates feeling all vulnerable, not being able to move - too many times he's felt it with his life on the line, too many 'almost's for his body to ignore. It's one thing when he lets somebody he meets in a bar use these things on him - flimsy stuff made for sex with safety catches he could get around with his eyes closed - or pretends like they're holding him down when really he could take any one of them in a fight if he was motivated enough. But not like this. These are real cuffs, real knots - the kind he taught Sam how to tie - and Sam's obviously real serious which means that even if Dean could get out of all of this - which he probably can't - he'd have a hell of a fight on his hands going up against Sammy's skills. Yeah, this officially sucks.

At least he manages to bite back the 'fuck you' that's on the tip of his tongue - that hasn't seemed to work out very well recently, and considering how he's trussed up now, he's not feeling too inspired to push his luck.

"Okay, I'll bite - what's the plan, Sammy? More suck and fuck?" He tries to make the words filthy, mocking - make it cheap as he feels, like this - over the churning in his gut that seems to fill his ears completely.

Sam grins like hell itself is about to open up.

Dean's losing his hold on the anger fast, like the warm pressure of metal on his skin is draining it right out of him, and what's left underneath is sticky, dark panic. It's taking everything he's got just to make sure it doesn't show on his face.

"Don't want to spoil the surprise," Sam muses, sliding his fingers up and down Dean's thigh, feather light and so slow his teeth itch. "See, here's the thing you don't seem to get, Dean. I know you, better than anyone else could ever dream, know the stuff you've done, what does it for you because you've told me - told me all kinds of things. I'm the best damn lay you're ever going to get; tailor made for you."

"Heh, and you give me shit about MY fucking ego, dude?" he huffs out like a joke, as if Sam's words hadn't crawled under his skin, laying down slick, sin-slimy patterns wherever they touched. It's all getting mixed up inside him, sick and wrong and tight like his skin shrunk in the wash and now everything's all sensitive and tingly under Sammy's possessive touch.

"Case in point," Sam says, teeth bared like a smile as he lowers his head down to caress his lips ticklishly over the join of Dean's thigh. Wet heat - Sam's fucking tongue, raising goosebumps all over him - runs back and forth over the skin like he's cleaning it and just as the instinctual tension in Dean's muscle starts to release, sharp teeth dig in.

Dean couldn't even begin to describe the sound he made but it makes his face flush anyway, blood throbbing hot in his cheeks, his ears, not to mention in the stinging imprint of Sammy's teeth on his skin, burning like a brand. He looks down, perversely compelled to watch as his little brother soothes over the bite with his tongue, but he can't really see past the jut of his thickening dick. Why the fuck did he have to tell Sam things?

Sammy breaks off from sending skittering jolts up from the bitemark to nose at Deans balls with an affectionate hum. The vibration makes Dean's hips wiggle of their own accord.

"Told you," Sam mutters, the wet heat of his breath saturating Dean's heavy sac. He licks a stripe up the middle, following the vein halfway up Dean's progressively stiffer dick before placing a soft, chaste kiss to the head. The traitorous fucker lurches.

It feels like a truckload of hot gravel was just dumped inside Dean's chest, weighing down his lungs and making everything bake from the inside out. He can't do this, not all over again. Last night was bad enough when at least he could say he was caught unawares but this… he'd gone back to the motel with Sam, fucking gone to bed when his brother told him to - and maybe his higher functions weren't exactly firing on all cylinders at the time, but he'd still known better, still gone anyway. Because maybe that sick smoldering knot in the pit of his stomach wasn't so much fear of Sam doing this as it was fear of him NOT doing it, because maybe he needed this just as bad as Sam said he did. That didn't do a damn thing to make him feel better.

"Sam, you can't. You've got to stop," he gibbers, knowing his voice is too high and not even giving a damn because he had to do fucking something - couldn't just let it all happen without a word AGAIN, "Y-you're my brother." It's a lame ploy because when the hell did they play by anybody else's rules anyway; when were the blood-boundaries between them more than so much smoke and mirrors? Still, it stops Sam for a second, makes him meet Dean's eyes and the wave of disappointment that hammers his system completely overwhelms the relief.

"I know, Dean. That's why I have to. You took care of me my whole life, gave me everything I ever needed; now you have to let me return the favor, okay?" Sam leans up until they're face to face, staring into Dean with that wicked, sincere intensity that makes him want to squirm even more than the bite did. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want, I promise. Not going to fuck you until you ask for it. I want to, dying to, but I won't. All I'm asking you to do is let go, let me take care of you." Dean can feel his muscles fluttering all over, fucking trembling with the things Sam's saying because it sounds so good, so damn good to just finally let go and let somebody else take the weight. But he can't, has to protect Sam - that's his job and if things got out of control, if Sammy had to blame himself for something bad happening… no, he can't.

It must have shown on his face, because something breaks inside Sam's eyes, his expression falling into something so hurt Dean's hands clack in the handcuffs when he moves automatically to comfort his brother.

"Dean, please," Sam whispers, ragged at the edges "I've always been yours, since the day I was born. Is it so much to ask that you be mine too?"

Just like that, he's lost; Sammy and his goddamn talking.

He's always been Sam's too; his heart walking around inside his little brother's body, ripped right out of his chest and dragged through the dust all the way to California and back again so what the hell does it matter if it goes a little bit further? What the hell was he saving it for anyway?

Dean feels the pressure releasing in his chest like threads snapping, caught between the terrifying sensation of his control slipping away and the overwhelming, warm strength of Sam's body, Sam's will, washing over him. When had his brother gotten so strong?

He knows he's already surrendered long before he manages to make his head nod and the sigh Sam shivers out over his lips is like the first breath Dean's taken in years. Then Sam's mouth is on his, gentle, but firm, commanding, making Dean take him. And fuck but it feels so good, so much more right than anything Dean's felt in maybe ever, to just open up and let it all melt out of him, give himself over to Sam with some part of him knowing - always knew - that his little brother would make it better.

Dean's still trembling though; scared and empty and more torn open than he was even back in the pit, with his insides spilled all over the ground. But now it's Sammy's eyes he's staring into, the hazel clear and absolute - this is where he belongs, and the sudden swell of need fills him up so fast he's choking on it.

"Sa-am" comes out of his mouth as a sob and he doesn't want to fucking cry again, face blazing hot with them embarrassment of it - why does this have to be so goddamn intense? - but Sam's hands are pressed wide and sweetly cool to his cheeks, making him look into that unwavering gaze.

"It's ok, I want it all," Sam soothes, "You've got nothing to hide from me."

Dean couldn't have stopped the tears if he'd wanted to then, even with part of him screaming that it was stupid and humiliating and he needed to cowboy the fuck up, because Sam told him to give it up so it wasn't even a choice anymore.

It's insane how easy it is to give all the control over to Sam - once he'd decided to do it, it was like puzzle pieces fitting together, like he'd never really been meant to control this anyway. Every tingling, soft kiss across his overheated skin, every whispered praise filling him up in ways he ought to be ashamed of but needs so bad he doesn't even care.

His skin's prickling all over by the time Sam finally gets a hand on his dick - still aching-hard despite the jagged remainder of sobs working through his chest - and then he can't breathe at all. Sam's hand grips him tight and steady, slow strokes that ground him in his shaking body. Then sudden flash-fire burn as Sam's teeth sink in again, this time just below the collar bone.

Dean feels shivering and insubstantial - like electronic snow on a disconnected TV - only held in place by the gritty pleasure of Sam's hands on him, the rough shocks of pain as his brother bites into his skin, mounding the flesh between his teeth and sucking lingering marks onto Dean's skin. He groans for each shimmering point of pain, arching up, begging for more evidence to prove to his body that it belongs to Sam.

His brother's free hand slips down between their bodies until Dean can feel the gentle, exploring touch against his hole. There's no pressure behind it, like Sam's just getting a feel, but the muscles jump with every light brush of his fingertips. White hot flares are firing off randomly in Dean's body as though his nerves can't even tell where Sam's touching him any more, like he's totally consumed by Sam and it's kind of stupidly wonderful.

Dean never asks for anything, never has, never could, but it all pours out of him now in a wordless need and Sam just takes it in, absorbs it, and gives it back until the fulfillment is going to overflow from him - too small to hold it in.

Sam's dick paints a slick stripe where he's straddling Dean's thigh, rocking against his leg as Dean does the best he can to tense the muscle and give Sam everything he can. He wants to get his hands down there and stroke Sammy off, get Sam's come smeared hot across all of the other marks his brother has covered his body in, but this is the way Sam wants him and there's a thrill in that too that he's not even going to try to understand. Maybe next time, if he asks nice, Sam will let Dean touch him.

Just the thought of begging for it has him shuddering so hard the cuffs rattle, the searing pressure at the base of his spine spiraling steadily inward until he can feel it curling up into a ball, getting ready to be released. Dean doesn't want to come yet, wants to wait, watch Sam lose it first but there's no way he can hold back like this - at Sam's mercy - so instead he stutters out,

"Sammy, I - I'm gonna. Can I?"

He hadn't really thought about asking, it just tumbled out of him like he knew he wouldn't be able to unless Sam said the words, but the wanton groan Sam gives up over it is worth the hot sting on embarrassment when he realizes what he did.

"Do it. Come for me, Dean." Sam voice is low and sharp, an order, and yeah, Dean can do that.

The world goes silver around the edges, sinking down into the sharp sizzles of pleasure running through him like a current. The warm, wet spread against his thigh tells him that Sam lost it too and that's almost better than coming; feels so ludicrously good to have made Sam happy, to have done it right.

He comes down on short, hiccuping breaths with Sam whispering 'love you, love you' over him and Dean feels so warm and full and right. He barely even notices that Sam's released his arms until his brother starts laying tender kisses against the abraded flesh. Another bruise, another set of marks and Dean wants more, wants Sam to put something stark and permanent on him and the second the idea hits he's burning up with hunger for it.

But it will have to wait, because Sam's laying out beside him, pulling his newly released legs in to tangle with Sam's own and raising an arm in invitation for Dean to curl close. He does it instantly, couldn't even think of denying Sam right now, even if he wasn't yearning for that closeness more than anything.

The warm scent of sweat and sex and Sam envelopes him like a cloud, wrapped tight in the power of his brother's arms. Sleep closes in on him fast and he fights it for a while, trying to stay lost in this moment - it will be over too soon, and he's afraid maybe he'll freeze up again like this morning and try to fight once it's gone - before Sam murmurs softly "Sleep, Dean."

And he does. 


	3. Chapter 3

It's been weeks since their last big night together - when Dean finally broke down and just let it all go - and things have been basically normal since. They've gone on hunts, gotten their asses kicked, usually followed by a little ass kicking of their own. They've driven halfway across the country, argued, eaten at crappy diners where Dean flirts with all of the waitresses, watched fuzzy cable and had exactly zero sex. They've even slept in separate beds. In fact, the only obvious change has been the rough little bumps Sam can see under Dean's shirts from the little metal bars through his brother's nipples.

Somewhere in the middle of that last night, Dean had admitted - raw and shameless - that he wanted something permanent on his body to mark him as Sam's, and that he wanted Sam to be the one to choose it. The idea, rolling out of Dean's mouth on that gravel rough voice, had almost made Sam come all by itself. The next day, without a word of explanation, he'd taken his brother to get the piercings.

He'd more than expected Dean to bitch - even Sam had to admit having something done to his nipples seemed a little feminine, but it just fucking did it for him to see them on Dean - but in the most shocking move in history, his brother hadn't said a word; he'd flushed and shivered all the way down to his boots when Sam praised him for his restraint later.

Sam hadn't touched Dean since then, not in the way he wanted to at least. He'd kept it down to everyday casual touches, with the singular exception of a nightly examination to see how Dean was healing; rubbing a special herbal salve - Bobby swore by it, guaranteed to make any wound heal twice as fast - all around the new piercings and turning the bars to make sure the skin didn't try to stick to them. Sam did his absolute best to keep the touches clinical, but Dean got rock hard and whimpery every single time.

It isn't that he didn't want Dean - oh, fuck, he wanted Dean - but he knows it has to go a certain way, that they can't function as just top and bottom, dom and sub; they depend on each other too much to let even something amazing as the sex - ok, the almost sex; Sam had promised to wait until Dean asked for it and he was going to fucking make good on it, even if his balls were trying to crawl up and strangle him from the inside in retribution - get in the way of that. He didn't want Dean as just his sub; he wanted his brother, the whole shebang, and that meant that he had to give them both enough time to work out how the rules had changed, get comfortable in it, before he pushed any further.

He's starting to worry that it might be driving Dean right out of his skin, though.

After the last time they had - almost - had sex, Dean had fallen back into the sullen 'I'm a monster for wanting my baby brother' thing for a couple of days. The piercings had actually helped with that because they were tender enough that Sam could just rub up against Dean casually and watch Dean's eyes go all hazy and dark as he forgot about all the reasons they 'shouldn't' do this. After that had passed, things had pretty well settled down into their natural rhythm for a few weeks.

Now though, Sam had started to see the need build up in his brother's eyes. The way Dean didn't just glance up when Sam walked into the room, but really lingered, watched; the way Dean had started making up little excuses to be close, like coming into the bathroom to comb his hair or brush his teeth just as Sam was getting out of the shower. Dean hadn't actually made a move yet - though if he wanted it even half as bad as Sam, he must be goddamn dying for it - but Sam could almost feel them reaching the breaking point, the time when Dean was getting ready to just do something, anything, just to get a reaction. Sam had had a lot of practice with that feeling.

So he was going to head Dean off the pass.

Sam lounges back on his bed, flipping the TV over to a history documentary, which Dean categorically hates, but has been letting Sam get away with for the past few days - probably hoping it will get him laid.

He doesn't look up from the TV when he reaches out his hand idly to where his brother's staring at him from the other bed and says, "Dean, come here."

Dean nearly falls flat on his face from the sheets tangled around his legs as he tries to get to Sam's side. Once he's there, he just stands, staring, like he doesn't know what to do with himself without Sam telling him. That dark thrill of power rides down Sam's spine to settle low in his body like a heater turning on.

"Take off your shirt," his voice is just shy of a rumble and he can see the effect of it skitter under his brother's skin. Then Dean's scrabbling out of his shirt so fast Sam thinks he heard a seam pop.

Dean's chest is flushed, little pink splotches forming along the line of his rib cage, which Sam is quickly learning means that Dean's turned way, way on. He's breathing in hard, shallow bursts that Sam's tempted to call panting as he runs a hand up the ridge of abs to flick softly at the metal bar in Dean's left nipple. Dean's head rolls back on a moan and his fingers clench in the denim of his jeans reflexively.

Sam turns his hand so the back is pressed to the warmth of Dean's chest and puts one finger on each side of the bar. Dean gets the message fast when Sam pulls a little and lets himself be guided onto the bed, straddling Sam's hips. Dean's definitely panting now, green eyes wide and hungry, flicking around Sam's face for any sign of what's about to happen. The whole thing just lights Sam's skin up, suddenly two sizes too small the whole way around.

Sam takes his brother's wrists lightly, moving them until Dean's hands are flat against the wall on either side of Sam's head.

"Move them and I stop," he warns, and Dean nods, breath puffing out harsh with a needy little whine choked up somewhere behind it that Sam makes a mental note to work out of his brother later. For now, he strokes a finger lovingly over Dean's newest decorations, watching his brother's eyes fight against fluttering closed.

"I don't want you to wear these all the time," Sam says, eyes on the gleam of metal against honey-toned skin. "They're a liability on a hunt," fuck he wishes he didn't sound like Dad; Dean doesn't seem to mind though, hips squirming against Sam's growing erection, "and I want them to be special. You can put them on whenever you want, whenever you need it to be like this - or when I tell you too, because I need it, or if I think you do and aren't asking for it. This is your control, ok? That's all you have to do."

This, maybe more than anything, is what Sam's been waiting for - for Dean to heal enough for him to take the bars out, to make sure he's not the only one with control so they're equal in this, just like in everything else - even if Dean would never admit it.

Sam leans in, strokes his lips, feather-light, over the tripping pulse in Dean's neck. He kisses it gently, one quick swipe of tongue over sweat-salty skin and he can hear Dean's fingernails scraping against the wall as he writhes.

"What do you want Dean?" he muffles into the stubble-rough hinge of his brother's jaw. His only answer is a 'ngh' two full octaves higher than Sam thought Dean's voice would go.

"Do you want to kiss me?" Sam asks against the catch drag of Dean's full lips. They twitch and pull under his touch like Dean is just barely restraining himself from lunging at Sam's mouth.

"Yes, God, fuck, please Sammy," comes out in a rush of breath as Dean cranes forward to deepen the press of their lips. Sam pulls back just enough to be a 'no' then slowly takes Dean's hands away from the wall and places them on the back of Sam's head.

"Then do it," he says, barely getting out the 't' before Dean's mouth is crashing into his ferociously, bruising and possessive. Sam hadn't been kidding when he said he was Dean's too and they both knew it, it was the only way this could work. Apparently Dean intended to prove it.

Dean licks and caresses over every surface of Sam's mouth; tongue hot and supple as it dives in as deep as it can go. Dean tastes him completely, smooth muscle sliding over teeth and cheeks, tickling the roof of his mouth until Sam's been so thoroughly fucked with it that he feels like all the air's been sucked out of his lungs.

"Get your pants off," he whispers breathlessly and Dean lets out a starved sound - actually falling off the bed this time in his hurry. Sam's tempted to laugh, but his whole body has shut down to focus solely on his throbbing, wet-tipped dick, so instead he quickly strips himself too. Then Dean's back on the bed, kneeling with Sam, touching and kissing like he could absorb Sam through his skin.

"Let me mark you," Dean urges, licking at the play of Sam's Adam's apple when he swallows.

"Go for it." Sam growls - as if he could turn down an offer like that.

Dean sucks right onto that spot instantly like it was what he was made for, half cutting off Sam's air, but then he wasn't breathing so hot to begin with, so oh well. Sam, meanwhile, fishes out the tube of lube he'd squirreled away under the pillow and coats three fingers slick.

Dean flinches at the first cool touch to the base of his spine before leaning back into it, canting his hips with a groan to open more for Sam. The suction on his neck is starting to hurt - it's going to be one hell of a bruise - but he can't even bring himself to mind, it feels so damn good to have Dean's mouth on him.

His middle finger finds Dean's hole, dragging a moan right up from the pit of Dean's gut and getting him clinging to Sam for dear life as Sam circles it, just getting the opening wet.

"You want it? Want my fingers inside you?" he has to ask; just loves hearing Dean say it.

"Yes, please, Sam, c'mon. Get them in me, work me open, wanna be stretched so fucking tight around you." Sam's going to have more than one mark on his neck at the rate Dean's going, but with that kind of filth pouring out in Dean's 900-number voice he just so doesn't care.

"Next time I want to do this with my tongue," he mutters, more to himself than Dean, but his brother keens for it anyway as one long, slick finger slides inside.

Sam's struck all over again by how hot and tight Dean's body is around his finger, how impossibly good it feels, how his dick is fucking drooling all over the bedspread to get in there. Sam tamps down on the building pressure with his fingers at the base. The dripping crown painting a stripe up Dean's leg which get's his brother's thigh rocking firm against Sam's dick while Dean's busy mouthing at the line of muscle between his neck and shoulder.

Sam gets a second finger in and Dean's voice becomes a wavering flow of moans and gasps and little whimpers while Sam watches over his brother's shoulder as his fingers slip shiny, in and out of Dean.

A third finger really get's Dean moving, forcing back into the push, forward into the rub of Sam's cock, the slick groove of his hip where Dean's dick is cradled. The position's not great - without the kind of arm strength hunting's given him, he wouldn't be able to do it at all - but it looks so good, feels so good; heat pulsing in waves from the heavy, white-hot pit at the base of Sam's spine.

"That's it -fuck!" Sam breaks off to grind hard into Dean's leg. He curls his fingers, knows he got it right when Dean's nails drag down his chest, leaving little red tracks in their wake. Sam strains down to tease at the metal bars through Dean's nipples with his tongue. "Gonna fuck yourself down on my fingers, ok? Get us both off fucking my hand."

For Dean the stuttering gasps are as good as an order; pawing at Sam again to get some good leverage and he just fucking goes for it. Dean's pushing his hips out, rolling them, riding and thrusting until Sam knows his knuckles are going to be bruised and that he's not going to give a flying fuck because this is off the charts hot. Dean's in that place where it's all out in the open, no shame, no fear, just the need to come, the need to do whatever Sam says and it's fucking breathtaking.

Sam's caught between watching his brother's face as he comes apart, the clack of metal against his teeth when he sucks Dean's sensitive nubs and craning over Dean's shoulder to see the stretch of thin, pink flesh around his fingers. He unfurls the pinky without warning, watches Dean force himself back onto all four, feels the slight hardening of Dean's cock along the slick ridge of his hip just before his brother gives up a beautiful, miserable sound and comes all over them both.

Sam slides around Dean's hip as his brother goes limp, letting Dean fall face forward into the pillows as he rides out the aftershocks. Sam's seconds away from losing it himself and he knows exactly the way he wants it. He clambers over Dean's sprawled legs until he's settled between them. His brother's opening is puffy red when he pushes two fingers inside fast. The muscle gives way easily, half-hearted twitching trying to keep Sam out and fuck, it's just so goddamn pretty he has to bite his lips to keep from babbling something Dean would give him shit for later.

Sam jacks himself, hard and fast, fingers slicked by leftover lube and Dean's come. He's barely even bothering to breathe, chest tightened up and so tense it's aching almost as hard as his balls. Dean makes a high whimper when Sam's twisting fingers find his prostate, but his body doesn't give more than a reflexive jerk, letting Sam do whatever he wants. It's so amazing, getting Dean like this, seeing him so far beyond the line of the careful controlled big brother he normally plays, lost in a flood of need for nothing but Sam.

The first spurt of come erupts suddenly, overwhelmingly, and Sam barely has a chance to scissor his fingers and line up the head with Dean's open body so the milky heat fills his brother's waiting hole from the outside.

The opening was hardly enough to hold the heavy load that just kept pulsing out of him for what seemed like forever; Sam's fingers coated fast and the remainder throbbing out thickly over Dean's sac as Sam shakes with the zings of silvery burn coursing hotcold from head to toe.

He collapses next to his brother, Dean crawling on top of him and absently kissing all over Sam's heaving chest. Sam skins sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead and decides to just go with it when the impulse strikes.

"Clean me up," he commands, voice soft with satisfaction, but Dean quivers with the authority anyway. He's immediately, hungrily lapping up the mess of come - both his and Sam's - spread out across Sam's hips and groin.

The sensation is kind of phenomenal; warm, wet, gentle licks all over his tingly skin. Sam could get used to this really damn fast. Dean goes especially slowly over Sam's softened dick, maybe because he knows it's just this side of pain, or maybe just because he's basking in it. Either way, by the time Dean's finished, Sam's cock in beginning to take an interest in the proceedings again.

Dean lays his head down in the hollow of Sam's hip and teases him back to full hardness with sucking kisses and slow licks. For some reason, Dean seems to have developed an affection for this position; he's fallen asleep in it both times they've done this before, but Sam's not feeling particularly sleepy anymore, even if his muscles are pleasantly jelly-fied. That's a word, right? Oh screw it.

"What do you want, Dean," he asks again, tone a lot closer to giddy than he'd care to admit. Dean 'hmm's his appreciation and works open mouthed kisses around Sam's base.

"Wanna suck you," Dean purrs, looking up at Sam through half-lidded eyes. Fucking hell, it's just not any kind of fair that his big brother can look that damn obscene. Sam just nods his consent, rolling his head back in the pillows as Dean strikes up a lazy rhythm of sucks and swallows that gets Sam's whole body thrumming.

So maybe the start of this little relationship of theirs hadn't been easy, Sam didn't have a single regret. It was definitely worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean's not complaining; not by a long shot. He's having more sex than he's ever had in his life - which hasn't exactly been lacking in the sex department - and he's having it with the one person in the world he loves and trusts above all others. Oh yeah, and it's hot. Fucking hot. Sammy is rabidly enthusiastic in a way that Dean never even imagined in his darkest jerk-off fantasies; it's like Sam's starving for Dean, can't get enough of him, and if that doesn't just do amazing things for Dean's libido. There's this sort of desperate need that comes off of Sam when they touch and it's better than any goddamn drug Dean's ever tried, because seeing that in Sammy's eyes, feeling it in the unsteady hitch of his breath, that's always been the thing Dean wanted most in the deepest, dirtiest parts of his soul.

So no, Dean's not complaining, it's just... well, he may be developing a complex - or you know, whatever the less prissy version of that would be. See the thing is, for all the messing around they've done (and there has been a fucking lot of messing around) Sam won't actually put his goddamn dick in Dean's ass, and Dean hasn't got a clue why.

He thinks he's been pretty clear about the whole thing - subtle was never really Dean's bag, especially not when it come to sex. Like seriously, how many times can a guy lay ass-up naked on a bed without somebody finally getting the hint. Hell, Sam's had pretty much everything else he's got up inside Dean - plus a couple of well selected toys - and still his baby brother seems to holding back on the really deep dicking Dean's starting to go crazy for.

It's kind of weird actually. He's always had a few 'sub' tendencies, he guesses- Sam's phrasing, not his - always kind of enjoyed taking it for the right kind of guy - tall, strong, shaggy hair; ok so he had a type - but it's never been his first choice off the menu, sure as hell never CRAVED it. And he really really does now.

It feels like he's been hard for a week straight; every time he thinks about that long, heavy cock of Sam's filling him it starts all over again and between all the screwing around he's been doing with Sam and all the fingering he's been doing to get himself off in between, he's pretty much been worked open for days. He kinda feels like a whore.

Dean's tried it with the piercings in - holy fuck he loves those things - and without, done everything but fucking held Sammy down and sat on his fucking cock, and he still hasn't got anything to show for it. Dean's a hot piece of ass damnit, lots of guys would be falling all over themselves to tap that, so why the hell isn't it good enough for Sam?

It sure seemed to be good enough for most of the people at the bar. Yeah, alright, maybe Dean was slutting it up a little, flirting a little more than he should, with constant glances to where Sam was sitting in the back researching their next case. He was still pretty sure his brother had noticed though - they'd been here for almost three hours and Dean hadn't had to buy a drink in 2 and a half of them. He was a little bit plastered.

The girl he's talking to didn't seem to mind though; cute little blondie with wide amber eyes and these cherry lips that belonged on late night channels and probably a name but Dean couldn't really remember right now.

She leans in with The Look and starts whispering in Dean's ear exactly what she'd let him do to her - and impressive array of selections. One of her hands is steadily trailing up the front of his t-shirt and - yep, around the curve of blondie's ear he can see Sam watching. Oh, and hey, look at that, there's the girl's ear all conveniently located and practically begging for one of those long slow licks that get Sammy crawling right up the damn wall. So Dean does it; closes his eyes like he's really savoring this and let's his tongue ride a slow, slick trail over the whorls of the girl’s ear. She shivers all over, just like Sam usually does and manicured nails scratch at Dean's skin when her fingers clench under his shirt.

The light behind Dean's eyelids shifts and when he opens them, Sam's looming there like a dark - seriously pissed off - tower.

"Hey Sammy," he grins casually up at his little brother, watching the way Sam's hands clench into fists at his sides. "Better watch it, don't wanna dent the laptop," he adds, just to see Sam's face change colors. It takes the girl a second to key in that there's someone new in the conversation.

"It's time to go, Dean," comes out more like a growl and he kind of hopes Sam didn't notice the way his eyelids may or may not have fluttered at the sound of it. Still, he's been going through psychological hell for a damn week - which Dean Winchester DOES NOT do - and if Sam won't fuck him then he's got no right to be pissed off when Dean finds someone who will.

"You go on ahead," he smiles, bumping his nose affectionately into blondie’s cheekbone to make sure his message is getting across. The girl giggles - might be more toasted than Dean is - and wiggles her fingers 'goodbye' at Sam.

Maybe Dean was a little too occupied watching the girl's fingers or maybe he's just a little bit drunker than he thought, but he misses the moment when Sam moves so by the time his got his brother's big hand cupped around his dick and Sam's tongue fucking roughly into his mouth he hasn't got a clue how it actually happened.

Not that he really cares because fuck yes! Sam's fingers digging in a little too hard and just exactly the way Dean likes it, Sam kissing him into submission all teeth and tongue and so much pressure that the edge of the bar's digging into Dean's back from the way he's bent backward over it right here in front of goddamn everybody. Dean's hard as fucking steel.

He whines for it when Sam finally pulls back and says, "It's time to go, Dean" in the sharp, deep voice that Dean's brain helpfully supplies as 'Master' and when the fuck did that happen? For a fraction of a second Dean bridles at the thought - Sam's not his fucking Master, damnit - but his dick's pretty much running the show now and it really wants Sam to talk to it like that again, so what ends up coming out of his mouth is ,

"Oh shit yes!"

The two of them hustle out of the bar quickly - every eye in the place is on them - Sam holding out his hand for the keys and Dean supplying them without a second thought and then finally, FINALLY they're heading back to the motel.

That's never happened before, the whole 'in public' thing. So far they've had this kind of 'what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' deal going on about the sex; in the motel, they can fuck around all they want, and out in the real world they're the same weirdly close brothers they've always been. But that, that... claiming thing that Sam pulled back there, practically flashing a neon 'Sam's' sign over Dean's head that was seriously fucking hot. The longer he thinks about it, the more he feels like he's steaming in his skin and he was really kind of hoping to get a little foreplay going in the car - holy shit he really wants Sam to fuck him in the car - but Sam just gives him this look that's as good as shouting 'stay!' so Dean backs up onto the passenger side of the seat and tries not to chew through his lips before they get back to the room.

Sam gets inside first, immediately making for the bathroom and then he's back before Dean's even got the door locked, holding out two metal studs in the palm of his hand.

"Put them on," is all he says, crisp and deep again and Dean's pulling his shirt off like the fucker's on fire. For some stupid reason his hands are shaking so he has to fumble with the little bars for a minute before he's got them back in and God but it feels like coming home. He's Sam's, all Sam's, and who the hell could ask for more?

But Sammy's still pissed, grabbing Dean by the back of the neck and practically flinging him onto the 'sex' bed - the other one's reserved for sleeping. The sheets smell like sweat and come and them and if Sam wasn't standing over him like that, demanding absolute attention just by being there, Dean would bury his face in them to soak up the scent.

"You're gonna tell me what the fuck your problem is," Sam straddles Dean's hips, but stays up on his knees, not giving Dean the pressure he's practically writhing for inside his tight jeans.

"Nothing," he pants, scrabbling for the button on Sam's jeans but one of those big paws just slaps him away.

"Like hell, nothing," is all Sam has to say back.

Unbidden the anger come rolling right back up on Dean; all the weeks of waiting, the hungry desperate nights when Sam wouldn't touch him, and now touching everything he wants except for this one thing he needs and he doesn't know why Sam won't give it to him, can only come up with that he's not good enough - again -, Sam doesn't want him enough and just like every time before it makes him want to tear something to the ground until his hands are broken and bleeding and watch it all burn.

Dean doesn't want to feel it, not now, not like this. For a few minutes at least he could forget that Sam doesn't want him in all the ways Dean needs, lose himself in Sam sweat and his skin and the hardness of his body, but it's like he's riding a roller coaster he doesn't remember getting on and the anger wells up anyway, nothing to be done about it. His nerves are jangling with the strain of emotion warring inside him, want and anger and rejection and that desperate fucking need to prove himself that's probably going to kill him one day before some creature ever gets the chance.

So he pushes, shoves, twists and curls in on himself until he's finally managed to dislodge his brother enough to stumble off of the bed. It probably looks ridiculous, him standing there against the flowered wallpaper with fucking studs through his nipples and his dick tenting his jeans, trying to glare down his confused, pissed off younger brother because he won't pound Dean in the ass the way he'd hoped. But he's yelling about it anyway, body flipping over to autopilot, funneling off some of the flood of rage trying to drown him.

"Forget it, Sam, just fucking forget it! It was a stupid goddamn idea in the first place and I never should have let you!"

"What the hell are you talking about!" Sam's up off the bed, pacing wildly but keeping the distance between him like he can't even stand to be close to Dean. He hates what he just let spill out of his mouth, hates that Sam's not trying to contradict him, to tell him they'll work it out, they'll keep this thing going.

"I don't need you to pity-fuck me, ok? I was doing just fine on my own!" he rails, closing the distance because if this is really the last time he's going to get to feel Sam against him then he wants it all.

They slam into the wall hard, pressed in a tight overheated line against each other and it's like there's razorwire in the air, cutting up Dean's throat on every heavy drag of breath he can't stop himself from taking.

"Dean," Sam's voice is soft and kind of awed, so much like when he was a kid and he'd look up at Dean like he was a superhero, like he was the only important thing in the world. "Do you really think I would have come this far if it wasn't what I wanted?"

Dean hears the crackled sob work its way out of his throat, can't swallow it down fast enough to hide so he just lets the words pour out too, too far in to not ask.

"Why then?" his voice is ruined, abused and he forces the sound out anyway through the grasping tightness, "Why won't you fuck me?"

Sam stands there, pressed up against the wall by Dean's increasingly sagging weight, face completely blank except for the flickers of... something, behind his eyes. When he speaks the words come out like a curse in church, "Jesus, Dean. I told you at the very start I'd wait until you asked me. I've been waiting this whole time."

The words fit like puzzle pieces in his brain, but none of them are to the same puzzle. Dean turns the around and flips them over, trying to make them fit into anything that makes sense before finally the plucked-string tension in his chest just snaps.

"I've fucking begged for it you jack-ass!" his voice sounds kind of shrill when it's up that high, but at least he doesn't sound like he's coming unglued anymore. It seems to chip through to something in Sam too, because he actually manages a full-on Sammy-eye-roll.

"It doesn't count during sex, Dean," he says in the voice he usually reserves for telling Dean he's mixing up his Latin participles or that it's still manly if you ask for directions.

"Well when the fuck did you expect me to say it! Over breakfast!" He really hopes the people in the room next door are enjoying this because they're damn well hearing it.

Sam visibly stumbles over that one, sputtering out with his mouth wide open like he was going to retort back, except nothing comes out.

"You fucking idiot," Dean growls, giving his little brother one more hard shove against the wall before pulling back. He starts trying to fight the studs open again, too mixed up with frustration and relief to do it right, so he's too wrapped up in fighting with the tiny elf-sized catches to notice that Sam's come up behind him until those big hands slide gently around his waist.

"You want me to?" Sam whispers and Dean has to will his stupid body to remember he's pissed off and not to shiver when the breath tickles the back of his neck.

"Well not right now I don't. Thanks though," he snaps, giving up on the damn studs and just going for the bathroom instead. He wonders how many hours he can get away with showering.

He's pulled up short by Sam's heavy hand dropping down on his shoulder. It's not fair that that little touch can send a juddery heat sliding under his skin, clawing at his ribs. Grudgingly he looks back over the gripped shoulder, glare still carefully in place.

"Get on the bed, Dean," Sam says, all Master-voice again and ok, Dean needs to do something about all this 'Master' shit flying around in his brain.

He shrugs his shoulder which does absolutely nothing to dislodge Sam's hand and huffs.

"I'm not in the mood Sam. Go jerk off or something if you’re so desperate."

Dean really wasn't expecting to get such an up close view of the wallpaper, and he's not exactly thankful for the surprise. One of Sam's hands in braced on his shoulder, the other's holding Dean's head firmly in place while the full brunt of Sam's strength presses him into the wall.

"That wasn't a request," Sam breathes right against Dean's cheek and he hates the way his head tries to turn automatically to capture his brother's lips. "Get. On. The. Bed."

How Sam does that shit is beyond Dean; how he doesn't just push, but slams Dean's buttons, even the ones he didn't know he had. It's too fast, too easy; his knees have already gone to jelly, anger and hurt cracked away like a shell so that all his soft tender insides are laid out for Sam to see. He should have at least put up a fight, made Sam work for it, but even if a part of him is kicking himself for giving in, the much much bigger part just wants to let it go, let Sam have him, make it better.

His brother must feel the fight go out of him because he releases Dean instantly, giving him just enough room to move as Sam guides him away from the wall, stops him just short of actually climbing up on the mattress.

Sam's fingers busy themselves with getting Dean's jeans undone, batting his hand away again when he fights through the willing lassitude enough to try and help.

"Just let me take care of you," Sam murmurs, the sound rumbling through his chest straight into Dean's back.

It's like he's wading through fog as Sam nudges him gently into position up on the bed; the rejection and fear and anger and even the wants all stripped away and he doesn't have anything left to feel right now, nothing left to do except whatever Sam wants because somehow he knows that's how he'll feel better. Fill up the empty spaces with Sam; it's all he's ever really done, all he's ever really needed.

Time's skipping around or Dean's floating out of it maybe, zoning back in on the feel of Sam's lips gentle against his neck, the cool spread of lube as Sam's fingers slowly work inside of him. He thought he'd been broken before, thought he'd come apart for Sam and lost it all, given up everything, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe this was what it meant to be broken, to be pure, to exist only for Sam in the way he always secretly has and could never say before.

And then somehow Sam's over him, surrounding him, pushing inside of him and yes! That's it, that's feeling again! Shocky, burning weight forcing into him; liquid spread of warmth from the pain/pleasure edge, the heat of Sam all around him, covering him. Sam's hands stroking restlessly over his sides, his thighs, his chest, Sam's lips, his breath, warm and wet and everywhere. Sam, taking all the jagged broken things inside of him and molding them back into something whole with nothing but his fingers and his mouth and enough fucking will to crush Dean's resistance to pieces. He's never felt so loved, so worshipped, like he really is the single most important thing in existence for Sam and it might just be the most terrifying thing he's ever come up against. He wouldn't give it up for anything.

Sam's all the way in, soft prickle of his balls rubbing against Dean's sensitive skin, so full it feels like his skin shouldn't be able to hold this much, shouldn't be capable of being full and high on Sam and still have room for Dean somewhere in there too. Then Sam's slowly sliding back, tight drag, slipping free only to press forward again. A quick scrape over the bright bundle of nerves inside of him, electric need using him like a conduit, burning through all of the haze until Dean's nothing but raw sizzling nerve-endings.

Sam's thrusts speed up, still bone-deep and rolling but faster now, shattering, forcing his way into every fiber of Dean's being until the lines go blurry and it's hard to tell who's who. Sam's fingertips digging hard into the dip of muscle at Dean's hip, nails scratching up flesh when his hold slips. Slick skin sliding on a layer of clean sweat, bodies working like parts of an engine, built to fit together this way. Dean wants it to last forever, knows from the steady ache building at the base of his cock that it won't, that he's going to lose it all in minutes without Sam getting so much as a finger on him because Sam's consuming him, is everywhere inside of him and that actual touch is superfluous.

Dean ruts back into each thrust, rolling his hips for every ounce of sensation he can milk out of his shimmering nerves. He's going to carry this around inside of him forever, feed his soul with it until the day he dies because for this one moment, this one day, he was loved this much. He was everything. Everything for Sam.

It's more like agony than ecstasy when he comes, or maybe the other way around, maybe he can't even tell the difference anymore. Long hot spurt of ropy fluid clinging to his belly, the sheets, Sam's hands where they're pressed tight to his chest. Sam rubs the wetness into his skin in steady, soothing circles, never lets up on the rhythm even when Dean's overworked system is shouting at him to surrender.

So he does, surrenders everything he has left in the lift of his hips and the press of his mouth and the whisper of every pathetic, chick-flicky endearment he's ever thought about Sam in those thousands of 'this could be the end' moments.

Sam clamps tight around him, body freezing up until they have no choice but to tumble forward into the sheets even as Sam's body twitches and spasms, filling Dean with wet heat.

Sam's crushing him into the mattress but Dean's never felt so light and at the same time so shockingly real and alive. He wonders if this is what it's like for other people, the ones who are whole, who don't know what it's like to sell your soul for something you could never dare to dream of having.

He doubts it. 


End file.
